Back to the Drawing Board
by A.D. Williams
Summary: After Altaïr's initial demotion within the Brotherhood, Al Mualim gives him an ultimatum; leave the Order or train his nephew into an Assassin. Never to back down, Altaïr rises to the challenge...and a challenge it is. Loosely based on AC1.
1. Chapter 1

A few quick notes I'd like to put out there:

The first thing I'd like to mention is that this was written in the span of me being in the midst of several of the games. Initially this was started shortly after finishing AC2 and partway through Brotherhood. As of finishing this story, I have completed Brotherhood and am perhaps midway through Revelations. I also happen to own the AC Encyclopedia and turned to the AC wikia for additional help, though I've not read everything as I don't want to completely spoil the plot for myself :)

This being said, forgive any incorrect dates or facts though there are some things that were intentionally changed to help mold the story. Also, this was written as a single chapter but I've broken it up to make reading it easier.

And the second thing, please keep in mind that this _is _a comedy story…and can perhaps trail into being called a crackfic (though I'd like to think this has a little more structure). Either way, you've been warned :) Enjoy!

* * *

**Humble Beginnings**

Altaïr tried his hardest not to shiver as he sat before Al Mualim in the drafty open office. He'd been tied to a chair by his "brothers", stripped of all possible defenses, but he wasn't too concerned. He'd been in this situation before. He'd be chided, sent on novice assignments, and in a week, he'd be back in his Master's good graces again. He _was _his favorite, after all. There was no way he would permanently demote him.

Then again, Al Mualim had never sat on the edge of his desk and just stared at him like this before either, nostrils quivering. Altaïr thought of a horse and did his best to hide his smile in his hood.

"You utterly disappoint me, you know that?"

"Pardon me?"

"You reckless fool. You've nearly compromised the entire Order, everything we've worked for! With half the men injured on that one operation, I'm surprised the Templars didn't just follow the trail of blood back here!"

"Well, this _is _a massive fortress on top of a hill, which doesn't exactly scream 'subtlety', you know."

For the first time, he was slapped. As if popped open, his jaw went slack as he stared in absolute shock. Someone actually hit him! He blinked, realizing things were not going according to plan.

"You know the absolute worst part of this, Altaïr ?" Mualim asked, his dark eyes burning. "You're not even apologetic. On the contrary, you don't even see what you did wrong."

"We brought back the treasure you requested," Altaïr said evenly, trying to redeem himself. "I'd consider that a success."

"Malik's missing an arm."

_Oooh…right. _Altaïr turned just far enough to see a team of medics working frantically to make a tourniquet for Malik's severed arm. Catching his eye, the man said "Don't take it too hard, Altaïr! It's not like it was the right arm. I mean, I'm still wondering how I'm going to explain this to my wife and it's going to be harder to pick up my daughter but that's nothing as long as we got the treasure, right?"

Altaïr was currently feeling an emotion that at the present time was foreign to him: guilt. He realized very quickly that he didn't like it and sought to regain control. "I'm missing a finger, and I function just fine—"

"We're _all _missing a finger!" The rest of the Assassins screamed, revealing hands that had sacrificed the finger needed to use the hidden blade.

Before Altaïr could ready a good reply, Al Maulim had forcefully turned Altaïr 's face back to him. "There are losses we bear for the greater good of the Creed and those that benefit only ourselves. If we work on an individual basis, if even one of us shows weakness, we leave an opening for the Templars. They have shown nothing but a united front against us and we must match them stride for stride. And sometimes, that means reassessing our forces."

Altaïr was acutely aware of his Brothers now listening very closely. Even Malik leaned forward to hear better. "Meaning?" Altaïr dared to ask.

"I'm putting you on new recruit training duty."

While he felt something shatter inside, it was overshadowed by the screams of joy from the rest of the room. Glasses clinked as they were toasted; pages were thrown in the air, and a flutter of messenger pigeons were all but chucked out the window as they were made to bear the jubilant news to all the Assassin factions.

Mualim gave them a withering look in which the Assassins quickly went back to lookinglike they were busy. Altaïr decided to not show weakness, not giving his so-called Brothers any more satisfaction out of his demotion than necessary. In fact, he'd make it seem that this was a brilliant idea! "No problem, I can train recruits. Someone has to give them a shred of hope of getting to my status."

The others tittered in silent giggles. "His _status_," someone whispered in a carrying voice, and they laughed harder still. This time, Al Mualim didn't quiet them.

"There's someone in particular I want you to train," his mentor went on, taking his place again on the edge of his desk. "And your success will determine whether you stay with us or not."

Altaïr frankly didn't think that was fair considering not everyone was cut out for this line of work. He'd seen new recruits that were all swagger and yet couldn't stomach the sight of blood, much less actually killing someone. If lucky, they were able to take on a position in one of the Assassin Bureau's as an informant, which still paid better than most of the common trades. He wasn't sure how he was going to essentially force someone to become a murderer.

"And who is the lucky person that I get to take under my wing?" he tried for a joke.

"My nephew, Hassan." It was said with a grimace, implying both love and disappointment. "We know those that are truly born of the Assassin lineage are few and far between. Hassan has shown that he possesses all of the traits, but…"

Altaïr ventured, "No one to show him what to do with his skills?"

The Master shook his head. "If he had any skill, I wouldn't be worried about him. But that's just it; he has none! I even tried sending him abroad to become a blacksmith and they sent him back with a note begging me to keep him after he crushed two apprentice's fingers. He's seventeen now, I've waited long enough for him to show promise in becoming anything other than an assassin. This seems like it might be his last hope."

"Can't he work in a Bureau?" Altaïr asked, attempting to adjust his wrists which were becoming increasingly uncomfortable from being tied so long. When he tried to shift them, he gave himself a rope burn and decided to just leave it be for the moment. Of course he knew that in a real life or death situation, he could just break the chair but he figured this was more for the sake of making him listen than fear of retaliation.

Mualim though took notice of his discomfort and with his initial anger redirected for the moment, he gestured to someone who grudgingly untied him. He watched his charge thoughtfully rub his wrists while he said, "I think you really need to see him to understand why the Bureau wouldn't work. I've told him to be in front of the gates at daybreak and to be sure he's not followed. We'll see if he can at least do that much."

He got up and immediately the others began burying their faces in books, redressing Malik's already bandaged arm and becoming quite interested in the day's idle chitchat. "You're my last hope with him, Altaïr . Please, give me a nephew I can be proud of again." The sea of bodies parted as he swept down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

With their eavesdropping accomplished, the others slowly filtered out, leaving Altaïr alone and feeling numb.

~.~.~.~.~

Very early the next morning, he did as he was asked and waited by the front gates for Hassan. Al Mualim hadn't described the boy to him but considering he'd be the youngest person to get within even a hundred yards of the fortress, he was sure it wouldn't be hard to find him.

Thing was, Hassan wasn't there. Even from his vantage point of on top of the massive stone wall, Altaïr couldn't see him. However, he did have a great view of the entire village, made even easier from the fact that the fort sat on a hill. His line of vision followed the trail of crimson flags bearing the Assassin crest to the guards guarding the path leading to the entrance. Here is where ordinary travelers were turned away. Considering that the few who were standing there were gathered around staring impressively at someone's new sword (so much for security), Altaïr let his gaze travel further, down the steep slope to the village square.

He could hear it before he could see it. Bagpipes, tambourines and twangs of lutes had slowly been drifting its way back to him. In the distance, he could make out bright twirling cloths and a frenzy of people dancing. He groaned; the gypsies were back.

It wasn't that he didn't like them; on the contrary, he found himself especially lucky when one of his assignments collided with their appearance in a neighboring town. Festivities always made killing that much easier. His problem was the performance itself; music that sounded like cats dying, monkeys trained to pickpocket, and some of the dirtiest women he'd ever seen. No, these weren't the famed beauties of Notre Dame he'd heard about. These were desperate beggars masquerading in art.

Either way, there was still no sign of Hassan. Looking directly down from his perch, there stood the customary wagon of hay, soft and fresh and completely unassuming. Allowing himself to become weightless, he let his body plummet nearly a hundred feet below.

And as if he wasn't _right _behind the guards, they took no notice. Altaïr hopped out, brushed the straw off him, and strode down the path. They started for a moment when they saw that someone had actually managed to sneak that close to them, then grinned.

"Altaïr! How was the mission?" They greeted him and he realized that miraculously, the guards had no idea that he was an absolute peon now. He knew the tides of power would soon switch and decided to make the best of it for the last time.

"You should pay more attention to actually doing your day job instead of gossiping about your newest toy," he snapped and he relished in watching how their faces fell. Oh, he was going to miss this! But it wouldn't last forever. He hoped.

Walking just a little bit taller, he happily made his way down the foothills to the bottom of Masyaf. There, pouring through the massive front gates of the village was the most colorful chaos he'd ever seen. Many people politely stood back to only watch the party but many more had been infected by the mood and were now wildly spinning with the gypsies, swinging their arms with no particular rhythm. He took a second to tighten his money pouch to his belt, needing a moment to prepare himself. Then, with a deep breath, he stepped into the fray.

He was pushed, prodded, stepped on, grabbed, jostled and essentially man-handled as he fought his way through the crowd. It felt more like he was swimming upstream against a current that threatened to completely carry him away if he didn't keep fighting. Faces flashed by in front of him, most not young enough to look the part of a new trainee, looking absolutely delirious with joy. Indeed, even if the music sounded like cats in heat, the people needed the reprieve.

But suddenly, before he could fend them off, someone tried to slip their hands onto his wrists. He managed to pull back just enough so that they took his hands instead, sparing them from touching the blade in his arm. With surprising force, he was swung violently around, an elderly woman grinning wide as she twirled him. He spun and tottered on his feet, jerkily righting himself back up all to find that somehow, he'd entered the eye of the storm.

On the edges, he could still see the dancers. But through the swarm, he could see a small circle of space that surrounded a pair of dancers. His assassin intuition kicked in and without knowing, he _knew _the boy was him. And as he watched, he knew exactly why his master had called him a hopeless case.

Draped across his shoulders was a rather festive purple wrap, decorated with gold on the fringe. In one hand, he shook a tambourine while using the other to guide the gypsy in an under-armed spin. As the two twirled, it was almost as though they were a magnetic spinning top, and others began being pulled into the loop. Two became ten and still more as a circle formed and thus the peaceful eye dissolved to become part of the raging storm again. Altaïr meant to back away but the boy caught his eye and on his next pass, he was unceremoniously sucked in too.

Altaïr didn't dance. Not that he'd call this primordial writhing "dancing", but he still refused to be a part of it. Every second he thought he could get away with it, he tried to slip back, but Hassan would smile blindingly at him and nudge him back forward. He seemed to enjoy making up dances as much as he liked being part of them, encouraging everyone into a move where they gathered close together before breaking apart, wiggling their hands.

"Spirit fingers, everybody!" Hassan shouted, demonstrating enthusiastically the greatest impression of worms that Altaïr had ever seen. "_These _are spirit fingers!"

He'd had enough. On a pass during their looping that brought them near the thickest of the crowd, Altaïr pulled the boy's robes back with him into the shadows, cupping a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet. Pleasantly enough, the boy complied and he easily dragged him halfway back to the fortress before roughly spinning him around.

Altaïr opened his mouth but Hassan got the first words out. "You're _him_."

He paused for just a second but an assassin must always be fast on their feet…and with their words. "You've heard of me?" _So much for subtlety._

Hassan nodded so hard, it seemed his head was going to snap off his neck. "My uncle praises your name daily! 'Altaïr , the youngest assassin ever! Altaïr , already completing assignments for those twice his rank! Altaïr , I wish I had twenty more like him! Altaïr—'"

"Okay, that's enough!" Altaïr cut in, snapping his hand back over his mouth. "You sort of ruin the point of what we do by yelling it to the wind." He looked around, though the music from the village safely drowned out anything they were saying. Then again, he wouldn't put it past someone to know how to read lips; he certainly did. It'd become a thin line between gauging paranoia and genuine caution but he wasn't taking any chances. Gripping Hassan's robes again, he proceeded to pull him up the path, past the guards—who tried, and failed, to hide that they were still admiring the sword—and into the courtyard of the fortress.

Beyond the massive walls the boy gave an unmistakable longing gaze as he watched two fighters practicing in the sparring pit. Altaïr looked upon them and saw room for improvement but he knew how it looked to a newbie. It looked damn awesome. He looked back at his new charge, sizing him up for the first time. Puny arms, knobby knees, slightly pigeon-toed and he didn't miss the fact that he squinted frequently. Excellent vision was a must in this line of work. And Al Mualim wants _this _to become as good as him?

Whoa, boy.

"The Master tells me he's been training you with a few skills. What've you learned so far?" He figured he might as well get a run-down of what's been taught so he'd have a starting point.

Hassan started ticking off on his fingers. "Well…he at first wanted me to become a merchant. But the sun managed to hit the glass jars from the stall next to mine just right and all my rugs caught on fire. Then there was an apprenticeship at a blacksmith's—"

"I've heard of that one," Altaïr assured him, already feeling his hope for the boy draining.

He nodded, continuing. "Finally, he tried teaching me to fish, which I thought I was really good at! Until…my hook ended up in a man's mouth. He kept screaming something like 'Oh dear God, the pain!'…Who's God?"

"Nobody," Altaïr muttered, more frustrated than ever. He struggled to remember how he himself started out. And then, he smiled as he remembered.

"First thing's first, I need to push you off the roof."

~.~.~

"Mr. Ibn-La'Ahad, I'm not sure about this."

"You can call me Altaïr ." _Thanks, Mualim._ "Just close your eyes and concentrate on the haystack."

"That's a contradictory statement," Hassan knowingly corrected before adding, "It must be fifty feet down!" He tried to step back from the ledge but Altaïr blocked his retreat. He also decided to keep to himself the fact that the leap was twice that height but minor details, right?

"You'll be fine. Every Assassin can do this."

"Has anyone ever died?"

_Don't lie. _"No." Technically, no one had. There was one man that knocked himself into a coma and after waiting two weeks to awaken, his family finally decided to suffocate him with a pillow. But the actual cause of death was not the fall.

"I dunno…" Hassan stalled. "What if I crash through the bottom?"

To this day, Altaïr still wondered about that himself. "You won't. It's…industrialized."

Hassan stared at him.

"Oh, for the love of dogs, go!" And without meaning to, he pushed him.

For a sickening moment, he watched the body twist through the air and just knew Hassan was going to miss the cart. Al Mualim was going to kill him. Not in the way the figure of speech suggested, with another tongue-lashing, but literally kill him. Before Hassan even landed, he'd already begun planning his escape. He'd steal a horse and head to Jerusalem. He'd avoid the Bureau and catch the next ship sailing to Europe. He'd change his name, learn a new language, start life anew. The only problem was that there were Assassin Orders all over the globe. And Assassins possessed a sometimes inconvenient knack for always being able to find their own.

But with a soft crunch, Hassan disappeared into the hay and Altaïr let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The boy slowly climbed out, as though making sure all his limbs were still safely attached. Once he realized he was still one, he turned and gave the thumbs-up to Altaïr who gave a dainty leap before meeting him at the bottom.

"That," he said, picking yet again more hay from this clothes, "is called a Leap of Faith."

"It was amazing!" Hassan looked entirely thrilled, seemingly forgetting that he'd been pushed off the roof, no leaping about it.

"It is very useful," Altaïr conceded. "Especially when you need to hide from guards or you're being chased on rooftops. Of course as time goes, you'll jump from places much higher than this but as long as you're facing towards the hay, you'll always fall in."

"Always?"

Altaïr shrugged. "_I _never missed it." Finally feeling a kinship building up between them, he put his arm on his shoulder as he led him back inside. "Now, let's do that about five more times."

~.~.~

The gatherings for meals were always a quiet event but the moment Altaïr entered the room, everything became silent. He knew not to cower at the staring eyes but he also realized that no one had seen Hassan yet. Their eyes shamelessly searched him all over and Altaïr was reminded that however Hassan presented himself was exactly how Altaïr would be perceived from then on.

He felt like he was in primary school again.

However, he was impressed when Hassan stopped before the head of the table, next to his uncle. Al Mualim stood up and made the introductions. "This here is my nephew, Hassan. Of course, all of you already knew that…news has a tendency to spread unusually fast here…"

The assassins cleared their throats , some looking away.

"He will be training amongst you and, with enough dedication, will hopefully join your ranks. I ask that each and every one of you shed your knowledge and guidance on him." Under his breath, he added, "He'll need it."

Altaïr found two seats halfway down the table. He himself took the seat next to a young man who was a little younger than himself, and began to freely pile food on his plate from the dishes in the center. The other young man was grinning to himself and staring down at his left hand, which was heavily bandaged. Inwardly, he sighed. Had he been paying more attention, he would've chosen a different spot than to sit next to Micah the Maniac (as he liked to call the man to himself).

Two days ago, Micah had finally graduated to Assassin status and his left ring finger had been sacrificed for the hidden blade. Since then, he'd been flicking his wrist whenever possible, releasing the knife and smiling all the wider each time it made a_ shhink _sound. Today was no different, but now, Micah had stabbed his meat cutlet with the blade and was proceeding to eat it off his wrist as though this were normal.

Altaïr was about to look away when he caught his eye and held him there. The manic look darkened as Micah slowly chewed on the meat, unblinking. Without preamble, he said "Isn't it beautiful? So useful…"

"I guess," Altaïr said without much conviction, managing to pull his gaze away to reach for the salad. To stall for time, he tried to offer Hassan some as well, but was waved away.

"I can't wait until I'm sent on my first assignment with it," Micah went on. Altaïr didn't need to ask what 'it' was. "Such a fine tool isn't meant to sit idle. Tell me, Altaïr , how often do you use yours? I hope to use mine every day. All those people out there, waiting to be Judged—"

"If you haven't forgotten, the first order of the Creed is to stay your blade from the flesh of the innocent," Altaïr quickly reminded him. He was starting to look around desperately for anywhere else to sit but by now, the table had filled.

Micah chuckled, his eyes flashing, making Altaïr unwittingly flinch. "I know _that. _I'm just saying that now that I have this, there's certainly more…possibilities…"

Thankfully, he trailed off, nibbling thoughtfully still on the speared meat. Altaïr took that chance to cast around for someone else to talk to. His eyes happened to land on the person a seat over and across the table. At twenty-seven, Nazia was the oldest female Assassin in the Syrian Order. Though she was only four years older than himself, Altaïr always felt like a child when he encountered her.

_Could it be because she already has two children and is happily married? _He thought with a hint of bitterness. Like himself, she too was born and raised in the fortress, pruned her entire life to be an Assassin. Unlike him though, he knew that whenever he had children, he did not want them to follow in his footsteps. Secretly, he looked to the little boy and girl sitting between their mother and father, the oldest no older than five and already able to catch small game. Nazia took pride in continuing this tradition while he himself stayed only to make amends on behalf of his deceased parents. He knew a small flicker of fondness remained for her (dulled from the roaring crush he'd had in his teens) but he couldn't fully respect the mother that'd knowingly put her children in harm's way.

Which made the situation with Hassan that much more difficult. However, Hassan was given options. He just happened to be…very inept at just about everything. And he was also old enough to have a say in the matter. He eagerly wanted to be trained so Altaïr wouldn't turn his back on him, no matter what his personal principals were.

With that resolved, he heartily dug into his meal, trying his hardest to ignore Micah as he continued to brutally shank his food.


	2. Chapter 2

It'd been easy to come off like an honorable big brother when he'd only spent half a day with Hassan but now that he was teaching in earnest, there were more holes in the regimen than a block of Swiss cheese.

He hadn't meant to initially judge Hassan like a book by its cover but unfortunately, he'd been right; he couldn't swing a sword, much less lift it. To be able to do close-combat was essential but there were many that were more skilled with long-distance attacks instead. So, after a month with little progress, Altaïr decided to spare himself more humiliation from the constant snickers and move on to something else that'd hopefully prove more successful.

"I think we should move on to learning something new," he told the boy one day in late fall. He'd taken them outside the city where the land was flatter and had set up several straw dummies. From around his waist he unhooked a long belt with several pouches, all filled with small throwing knives.

"Ever played a game of darts?" he asked as he took a knife out, fitting it easily between his fingers.

Hassan shook his head. "No. But I'm really good at chess!"

Altaïr found it hard to repress a frown, but then shrugged it off. A tactician. Perhaps he could work as an informant? But even they needed to know how to defend themselves. "Well, think of these knives as chess pieces. You have to make sure that…they hit the correct spots. Because some spots, just like some moves in chess, are better than others. And…that's what makes it so important. " _That was weak. _

"I don't think chess and knives are anything alike, Mr. Altaïr ."

With a dismissive grunt, he brought the knife up closer for Hassan to view. "You hold it like this, with your fingers directly behind the handle. Try hitting that scarecrow right in front. Don't worry about where you hit, just try to make it land." He drew a line in the dirt for the boy to stand behind and take aim. After several successive hits, he'd back the line up a few more feet until they reached a point where the blade would no longer hit. This had to be easier than the swords.

And seemingly, he was right. Hassan at first fumbled with putting the knife correctly in his hand until he was holding it properly. Then, with careful precision, he took aim, giving a few practice swings. Altaïr nodded his approval from the side, already feeling the pride well within him. At last, Hassan finally released and a streak of silver flew through the air.

Except it went _up_, not straight. A strangled cry echoed through the trees before a large eagle slammed to the ground, dead before it hit the earth.

"…Cooool!" Hassan breathed, stepping closer to retrieve the knife.

Altaïr blinked. "Hassan. The target was ten feet away. How could you miss?!"

Hassan seemed nonchalant about having missed the intended goal. "Dunno. But I took down an eagle, Mr. Altaïr ! An eagle! Wait until Uncle hears this!"

"NO! We don't tell Al Mualim about this," Altaïr said fretfully, looking at the beautiful, twisted bird. "We rely on the eagles to guide us. They circle areas with advantageous viewpoints. Do you know how long it takes to train it to do that?"

Hassan bowed his head, finally looking regretful. "I'm sorry. I didn't do it on purpose. So…what do we do now?"

With a heavy sigh, Altaïr picked the bird up by the feet and carried it away. "We dispose of the body and this secret follows us to the grave."

~.~.~

After another two weeks, Hassan had graduated to hitting targets from thirty feet away. This was exceptionally fast as it took months for most to strike from twenty feet. Even more so, they'd moved on to moving targets. Altaïr made sure to use the slightly more expendable pigeons this time, tying bright streamers to their tails. With each successful hit, the ragged scraps fluttered down, decorating the ground like confetti.

From there, they moved on to arrows, completely by-passing a return to swordsmanship. No sense in trying to beat a dead horse. So what if it meant that he'd forever have to run from anyone challenging him up close? That wasn't so bad in the grand scheme of things.

At least that's what he told himself.

Decent progress continued for the next three months with only occasional hitches. During the lesson about pickpocketing, Hassan was caught on his first try and was roughed up by a mob of people. He returned around the corner of the abandoned building where Altaïr was waiting, several layers of clothing less and missing his shoes.

"_Don't _say a word," Hassan threatened.

"What? I didn't say anything!"

"But you were thinking it!"

"…you don't know that."

Hassan narrowed his eyes.

Altaïr patted him on the head, telling him "Just stay there while I go buy you some more clothes."

And then there was the Great Escape fiasco. One morning, Hassan seemingly went missing, causing a general panic in the Order. Adding to that, Altaïr preferred the news of his absence to pass undetected…but who the hell was he kidding? There were those within the fortress though that were skilled informants and this was his first plan of action.

"I…need a favor, Malik," he thought he'd ask his old friend. Enough time had passed to still ask for favors…right?

"Drink poison and die," Malik told him without even looking up from his book.

"Come on, Malik, that was months ago! When are you going to get over it?"

Malik's body became rigid, his eyes very slowly rising to meet his. "I can't even believe you fixed your mouth to say that. I lost an _arm, _you insensitive ass!"

"You can get a new one! Prosthetics, they're all the rage these days."

Malik blinked.

"I should probably go."

"You do that."

~.~.~

It shouldn't have surprised him when only minutes later, his brethren surrounded him to suddenly inquire where Hassan was. Quite perceptive. Most had some down-time and looked at it as a challenge to help find the boy. However, now he was desperately racing against the clock. Al Mualim was bound to notice the hordes of people running around for no apparent reason…made even more apparent by the fact that some decided to express their pent-up energy in the worst way possible. Several of the assassins casually leapt from railings, shelves, tables, the same as they would scamper up buildings.

"What happened to discretion, people?" Altaïr yelled as yet another person bumped him out of the way. "Have any of you heard of hide in plain sight?"

But he was ignored. By late evening, Altaïr had all but disintegrated into full-blown panic. How do you lose a seventeen year old? Hassan didn't have a reason to run away…not exactly, anyways. And how far could he go? He had next to no money, could barely keep himself from tripping over his own feet and was terrified of horses. Several other members of the Order were searching the surrounding area but Altaïr felt that he was close to home. Then again, it'd been eight hours and they still hadn't found him.

On what must've been his sixth pass around the fortress, he was alerted to a sound that closely resembled cooing. He looked around, but the area was deserted. Unless someone was having fun hanging onto a rock ledge on the cliff that made up the peak of Masyaf, the noise had come from the wall beside him. But Altaïr knew even his ears weren't that strong and the structure was built to suppress noise. Figuring it was a long shot, he sat his lantern down on the ground and crawled onto his stomach. The foundation was also supposed to be solid but even the most impenetrable strongholds need renovations.

And did they.

"Hi, Mr. Altaïr!" Hassan said excitedly, but in a loud whisper. He shifted himself more comfortably on his side, pulling several small balls of fur that were obviously sleeping closer to him. "Kittens! I heard them crying so I decided to feed them. I've not seen the mother though…"

Altaïr wanted to be angry and just when he was about to snap for Hassan's complete disregard of at least telling someone where he'd been, one of the kittens woke up and gave a petite yawn. Looking him dead in the eye, the tiny creature softly mewled.

Next thing he knew, he was crouched under the floorboards with Hassan, cooing with him as they purred happily in his hands.

~.~.~

And thus an entire day was wasted. To make up for it, they trained for a month straight without reprieve, touching on other skills such as making smoke bombs, how to drag a victim into a cart of hay without raising awareness, and how to seamlessly blend in, especially with the scholars.

But a time finally came where Altaïr's expression became its gravest yet. Hassan stood before him, idly scratching behind a leg with his foot. They'd traveled as far as Damascus as Altaïr wanted the surroundings to be foreign; the task worked best in unfamiliar territory.

"You've progressed extremely fast so far," Altaïr praised, and mentally patting himself on the back as well. He was wondering how well he'd be able to control himself from rubbing this in everyone's face once it was all said and done. "However, there's still one more thing that we must explore. I have no way of teaching you this; I can only give you the theory. The rest depends on you."

Hassan grinned. "How ominous. But I'm ready; do your worst!"

"Oh, I'm not doing anything but walking away. You have to find me using Eagle Vision."

A puzzled glaze stole over the boy's face and Altaïr did his best not to laugh at him. "Eagle Vision can be used in several ways. Mainly, it can be used to instantly tell the intentions of those around you. Other times it can be used to reveal remaining traces of our Assassin ancestors. But the biggest difficulty is that not everyone is born with it and that it can skip generations."

"Does my uncle have it?" Hassan asked with awe.

"…No. Neither did my own parents, as far as I'm aware of, meaning the chances you'll have it is extremely minimal. However, the best way to find out though is to create a situation where you'd need it. I'm going to leave a trail around Damascus. Tap into the Eagle Vision to follow exactly in my steps."

He began to walk away and Hassan tried futilely to stop him. "You didn't give me a theory! And you only barely explained what it can do!"

Altaïr now grinned, walking backwards as he increased the distance. "That _is _the theory. What are you trying to use the Eagle Vision for?" Within seconds, he'd disappeared into the thick crowd.

"Right, easy for you to say. We're playing hide and seek in the middle of the city with any number of hiding spots and he wants me to try to use a power in which he's about the only living person that has it! Genius."

He cautiously walked forward into the stream of people, taking care to keep his head bowed and to move slowly. _Hide in plain sight. _He discreetly scanned around for a singular white robe, but he knew Altaïr would've been long gone and off the main street already.

_C'mon, focus! You can do it. Eagle Vision, activate! Eagle Vision, commence! Eagle Vision, I choose you!" _

Nothing.

He moved out of the stream of people and to the side of the road. Standing in front of someone's home, he tried staring as hard as he could, willing himself to see anything. Maybe a thread left behind. Maybe Eagle Vision presented itself as an out of body experience. Maybe he became an eagle!

But the sanded wall remained unchanged. And furthermore, people were now starting to whisper about the teen that was having staring contests with walls. He laughed heartily as he walked away. "Just checking for cracks! This building looks just as new as the day it was built!" That is, until he rounded the front and realized that there were several missing and boarded windows. He was in the poor district.

He beat a hasty retreat behind the house, over a wall, and across several rooftops. Once he'd gone far enough, he slowed and crouched down behind a domed roof. Only barely did he resist the urge to bang his head against it. Now he'd lost the only definite lead he had. Unless he went back…Altaïr said that the Eagle Vision worked to view remains of their ancestors.

But with another frustrated groan, he tossed that idea. Did remains mean clues or literally the remains of their ancestors? Because he really wasn't keen on the idea of an extra-sensory ability that enabled him to find dead people. Fine, he'd ask around. Maybe someone had seen him—

The moment he stood up from his spot, a guard caught sight of him. "Get down! You're not supposed to be up here!"

At the worst possible timing, his mind froze. He'd never encountered resistance when he'd trained with Altaïr. Somehow, the older Assassin had always known just how to dodge being seen. _That damn Eagle Vision_! He knew he should get down, but the man was close. Too close. He could make out his face. He was going to sound the alarm and then more would arrive. Them and their long, sharp swords, which Hassan didn't carry as he'd never learned to wield one. He was at a disadvantage, the guard was closing in, he should probably run—

And then his perspective changed. This wasn't just another sentry, this was a mortal enemy. An enemy that had come to quickly and quietly dispose of him. But Hassan wasn't ready to lie down yet.

The surrounding area became inconsequential. He could no longer hear or see anyone else. The only object of interest was the guard, defined by a distinctive aura that immediately foretold ill-intent. Without another moment of hesitation, Hassan withdrew a knife and threw. The blade crossed cleanly over the throat and the guard hurriedly attempted to staunch the flow of blood. But the wound was too deep and he bled too quickly. Within seconds he was dead.

Sight, sound and color flooded back to the rest of the world as though a switch had been flicked. Hassan saw the lifeless body not ten feet away and some remote part of him said that he should be sickened, but the truth was, he was only relieved. He'd been close to dying and killing had been his only option of survival.

He leapt over the roof and retrieved his knife before he remembered his initial target. Altaïr was waiting. And he'd finally discovered the means to find him…

"Come out, come out, wherever you are…"

Almost instantly, he could pick out a ghostly trail invisible to the naked eye. He could see how the footsteps had gone down the busy main street of Damascus, made a left, and then proceeded to scale a building. He didn't want his excitement to make him careless but he didn't try to hide his giddiness either, leaping from house to house as he followed the trail.

Altaïr must've known he'd figure out the Eagle Vision eventually as he'd doubled back on himself several times in an attempt to confuse him. There was even a point where it appeared the footprints stopped and completely disappeared. For all his terrible tracking skills, even Hassan knew this one. Altaïr had walked backwards in his previous steps. He did the same and soon enough came across the correct path.

The game finally came to an end when the ethereal tracks concluded at the peak of the highest citadel. Ten minutes (and much cursing) later, Hassan huffed to the top, trying to mimic the perched pose that Altaïr pulled off effortlessly.

"So you finally found me," he said conversationally, as though this were the most normal spot to relax, five hundred feet in the air. "You could've saved yourself some time if you had've just watched the eagles, but I'm pleased that you decided to put in more effort than that. You and I are now the only two in living existence that have this ability, as far as I'm aware. And Hassan…I'd like you to actually keep this to yourself."

Hassan had only been half-listening, still trying to keep from wobbling off the turret into the vast space below. Idly, he daydreamed of falling off, a random body falling through the sky, slamming into the ground and disturbing the peace below.

Ew.

That was one daydream he was not going to elaborate on and tuned back in just in time to hear Altaïr's request that he keep their special skill to himself. "How come, though? Think of how much we can assist the Brotherhood! And you're already one of the top Assassins." But then, a thought occurred to him. "You have an unfair advantage against everyone else."

"Well, look who's getting all high and mighty!" Altaïr huffed, turning his nose sharply into the air. "All the Eagle Vision in the world won't make you good at this. It's very helpful, of course, but it means nothing without other skills. And besides…what do you think will happen once everyone knows? The Brotherhood will likely split. There are those that would covet these powers and those that would want to use us whenever possible. Why track a target for weeks if you can find him in days? I've never told anyone this, but…sometimes I stall, just so as to not raise suspicion."

Hassan tried to reach a hand out to pat him on the back, teetered, and decided against it. "It's okay. Sometimes I like to wear my mother's burqa and pretend I'm invisible."

"…that's…actually, kind of depressing," Altaïr faltered. "But you get the point. Until we find others with the same ability, we should keep quiet about it." With that said, he steadily stood up on the peak. Far, far below, he could just make out the pinprick dot of the hay wagon. "Hey, Hassan…remember how I said you'd have to jump off of heights taller than the one at Masyaf?"

The boy shook his head feverishly, clutching desperately to the stonework. "That's suicide! Just climb down!"

"It's not called a Leap of Faith for nothing," Altaïr grinned and leapt. He'd be lying if he said he didn't go through several mini heart-attacks on the way down. Even as he drew closer and closer, he thought that at least, he was going to shatter the wagon. He also had enough time to realize the irony that he could drop a rock, a much lighter object, from the top and the entire wagon would detonate. But he himself slipped as easily into the hay as a fish through water without raising a single inkling of suspicion to the people sitting next to it. In fact, they were startled when he hopped out, thinking he'd materialized out of nothing.

Hassan joined him seconds later but stayed in the hay. Altaïr was afraid for a moment that it was him that'd died (again, he ran over the checklist to survive on the lam) but the boy popped up a minute later, gasping for breath. "WHOO!" he yelled, causing everyone in the area to run screaming. "We've _got _to do that again!"

Altaïr grabbed his arm and dragged him out. "Let's not and say that we did."

~.~.~

"_Where other men blindly follow the truth, remember…"_

Dutifully, Hassan answered, "_Nothing is true."_

_"Where other men are limited by morality or law, remember…"_

_"Everything is permitted." _

Al Mualim's voice boomed over the quiet hilltop of Masayf, his face illuminated by the brazier made at the top of the stronghold where they were gathered. Altaïr was finding it hard to swallow but said the last line with all the pride in his heart, joined in by the rest of their Order: "_We work in the dark to serve the light. We are Assassins."_

Hassan knew what was coming next but wasn't any more prepared for it as he'd thought he'd be. From when he'd begun his training at seventeen to now at nineteen, he knew that this was the day he'd worked so hard to reach. And now that it was here…he was going to miss his old life. Perhaps like a bachelor misses the single life.

Or it was probably nothing like that as marriages usually don't demand that one sacrifice a finger to prove his commitment but Hassan figured it was close enough.

Trying to keep his hand as steady as possible, he stretched it out and fitted his fingers into a contraption that had several holes for the fingers. It was only the ring finger hole though that contained a blade, essentially a mini guillotine. The cut would be clean, slicing through the bone and there were medical Assassins standing by to ensure he didn't bleed out.

His uncle stood beside the device, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the lever. But suddenly, he turned around and looked at Altaïr with a beaming smile. "Traditionally, the Master leads the entire ceremony. But you both have grown so much, turning a boy into a man. And I feel that you yourself, Altaïr, have transformed from an arrogant child into a humble leader. This will bring everything full-circle and would do me the greatest honor if you would perform the cut."

With a nod, Altaïr solemnly stepped forward. He could see Hassan was trembling and unfortunately there weren't enough words to calm him. He himself remembered his fake bravado on his own initiation. But in the lapse of having parents, even with Maulim being an emotionally distant guardian, he wanted to make someone proud. So he did it for himself. He gave a reassuring nod to the young man that he'd had the privilege to train, and pulled the lever.

To his credit, Hassan did not scream. He did whimper keenly however, in which the medics rushed over, presenting bandages and potions to thicken the blood. Altaïr almost felt bad for having done this to him (the waste of a pretty decent finger, if he said so himself), but then Hassan met his eyes and he realized that while tears were streaming down his face, they were tears of happiness. They called each other "brothers" in the Order, but Hassan had become the closest person that Altaïr had ever looked at as a true sibling.

Once the hand was wrapped, he picked up a heavy leather band with a metal bracer fitted onto the underside. Securing it tightly to the arm, Altaïr stood back to admire the result. Hassan gave an experimental flex of his wrist and the blade popped swiftly out, protruding exactly where his finger had been.

Upon this gesture, the other Assassin's gave up their serious expressions and swarmed him with their praise, patting him on the back and lifting him up on their shoulders as if he were their savior.

"The roof! The roof! The roof is on fire!" they chanted. "We don't need no water, let the—"

"He still has a ceremonial Leap of Faith to perform before he's an official Assassin," Mualim interrupted them sternly. With a collective sigh, they let him down, taking their places on the edge of the fortress.

Almost in synchronization, each spread their arms and jumped with a perfect swan dive. Altaïr took his place along with them, knowing how beautiful the image must look from the bottom. The fire shimmered faintly behind them and only the silhouette of the falling forms could be seen. Hassan was next to last to dive, supposedly to be followed by Al Mualim.

The Master took a glance down at the bottom, muttering "I'm getting too old for this," before leaping with them. He landed with a much louder crunch but nobody took notice. They were too busy picking back up where they left off with their jubilance.

"Let's party like it's 1185!" Malik shouted, already drunk and the rest echoed his sentiment, cheering as they paraded down the hillside.

Mualim popped up from the hay, futilely shouting, "No, what are you doing? You'll give us away!" But they were already gone. He sighed and looked back up at the glowing on the roof. Someone would have to put out the fire.

_"Not _going to be me," he muttered and swept away back into the castle.


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn't appropriate to work in the same teams or to even have favorites as the point of the Order was to work in harmony with everyone, but Altaïr would be lying if he said that he didn't give Hassan preferential treatment. He knew it was only because he'd played a crucial part in shaping him into what he was now, but there was something else as well.

Over the years, Hassan had never stopped his boisterous personality. No matter how many kills, he could still return back from an assignment and happily busy himself with fictional reading, doodling cooking (well…maybe not cooking. He enjoyed cooking but after an incident in which he nearly blinded a member with paprika, he wasn't allowed in the kitchen anymore) and overall he helped to keep everyone in a lighter mood.

Which was exactly what he was doing on this day as Altaïr at long last marked a final target in a long list of oppressors.

"After this, we can finally take a vacation, right Altaïr?" Hassan whispered excitedly from where they were hiding in the trees. Altaïr had a clear view of the main roadway leading to the encampment and further down to the castle of King Richard.

Without turning to look at him, Altaïr muttered "Hush."

"I think I want to head further East for my vacation," Hassan went on without a pause. "I heard they've developed a type of gunpowder that gives off colorful light and they use it for festivals. Imagine it, Altaïr! It's like being able to make your own cosmos!"

Altaïr groaned. "Nobody can create their own cosmos. And _shh_!"

"Yeah-huh! Maybe not literal stars but figuratively speaking—"

An arrow breezed past them, cleanly severing a branch above their heads. The shot had come from behind them and Altaïr attempted to extract a knife from his belt. Hassan proved to be much quicker and in the time that it took him to extract even one, Hassan had whipped his bow off his back and had taken down three guards.

As one, they jumped from the tree, impaling two more with the hidden blade. As Altaïr straightened up, he could see the wave of red soldiers spilling down from the surrounding hills. The only option left was to run. Hassan was readying three more arrows at the same time onto the bow but Altaïr threw out his arm. "Don't shoot, there's too many! Run, and stick to the woods!"

With impressive agility, Hassan re-sheathed and swiftly darted into the thick trees lining the road. Both were careful to dodge as many branches as possible so that they wouldn't leave a trail and at times split up to help confuse their pursuers.

As it turned out, the action was wasted. In a moment when Hassan had broken left suddenly, Altaïr intended to run a wide circle from the right and meet again. Fifty feet in, the ground exploded with a tremor strong enough to collapse him.

Distantly, he heard a similar sound and a loud scream. Now the guards would know that they were trying to split up and worse, would know their locations. Hobbling back to his feet, Altaïr tried to pinpoint the direction that Hassan had went, even trying his Eagle Vision, but his head was ringing and his vision was blurry. Hassan's trail was only definable as an intermittent glow before disappearing completely. He couldn't concentrate longer than thirty seconds at a time and was making little progress. In the end, he ditched the effort entirely and began heading in the direction he thought he'd heard him.

All around him, the guards shouted out instructions, also splitting up. Altaïr was good at keeping a level head but inside, he was mentally kicking both himself and Hassan. He should've taken on this assignment alone. Robert de Sable knew he was coming for him, had known all along, and had prepared accordingly. Altaïr had not. Had he been smarter, he would've left Hassan in Msayaf. It didn't take two people to do an assassination.

_Maybe not, but he still needs the experience. And…you would've missed not having him. _He sighed fondly at the last part. He no longer preferred the loneliness of going into an assignment alone. Even if it was a higher risk, he couldn't completely regret having brought him.

At this thought, he sped up, searching desperately for any signs of Hassan. He couldn't call his name and he started to have a terrible sinking feeling. Sometimes on group missions, if one member was lost or seriously injured, the best option was to leave them and hope for the best. When completely surrounded by enemies, most Assassins would take their own life instead of risk being tortured for information. This way, the most important tenant could be kept: Never compromise the Brotherhood.

But Altaïr didn't want to even consider that. Perhaps Hassan had actually gotten away and he was wasting time backtracking to look for him. They'd already decided that if they were to split, the best option would be to return to the nearest Bureau. He'd hold on to hope that that's what had happened and figure out how to escape as well.

That is, until he crashed through the foliage and onto a dirt road. The same road that only minutes before, he'd been watching. Furthermore, he was surrounded by guards from both in front and behind him and everything made sense; they weren't trailing him, they were herding him. They were one step ahead.

_Looks like this might be it, Altaïr. Don't go quietly. _Hidden in his sleeve, he released a bit of the blade. If he could at least kill Robert de Sablé, the ninth Templar leader, then this years-long hunt will have not been for nothing.

However, it was King Richard that addressed him. "I have followed your progress over the years, Assassin. Your…Order…seems to see itself as judge, jury and executioner for everyone that doesn't fit within your ideals."

Altaïr raised his head higher, his eyes challenging. "Your most trusted advisor plans to kill you to become king himself. All those that fell before him were his pawns to help him reach his means."

Richard nodded. "Perhaps, but they were _his _pawns. Did you have to kill them?"

"…yes?"

The king narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. "A good advisor is hard to come by and de Sable has been my best. However, I cannot ignore such dangerous accusations. I declare…a final match to the death between you two. No interferences. May God allow the most virtuous man to win."

"I'm atheist," Altaïr clarified.

Richard stared. "Oh. Well, pity on you." With that, he and his men retreated several steps to form a large circle.

"I've got thirty pounds on the _Ḥashshāshīn_!" one man shouted and soon his comrades were placing bets.

_So that's all I'm worth to them._ But Altaïr dutifully drew his sword.

Richard held up a hand in the air for three seconds before dropping it and the battle commenced.

Altaïr swung first, aiming for a mid-range cut across the abdomen, but de Sable jumped back just in time, following with an unexpected swing of his fist. The punch went wide and completely missed but Altaïr now had a better idea of how this fight was going to go.

From the sidelines, the guards continued to cheer and one took it upon himself to commentate. "We have de Sable the Unstable with a right hook—oooh, he misses! The Assassin counters with a feint swing of his sword and instead kicks him in the nether regions! Ouch, not cool, Assassin, not cool! But de Sable's not down for long and he pulls out a knife and—he has contact, people! The Assassin is 0 and 1 with a painful slash to the thigh. The Assassin isn't going down easy though folks, he pulls out his own knives and lands two blows back, one to the cheek and shoulder. Then a left punch, a right punch, a bite—yes, a bite!—from de Sable. Look at him bouncing on his feet, folks, float like a butterfly, sting like a bee! One thing is definitely certain; this is going to be the match of the ages!"

Altaïr tried to block out the voice and was seriously contemplating throwing one of his knives at him to shut him up but he only had two left. By now, both he and de Sable were worn down, only taking swings every few seconds. He thought about returning home to Masyaf, going on the promised vacation that awaited him. He'd probably take Hassan up on that trip to China to see the colorful gunpowder displays.

If Hassan was still alive.

If _he_ made it out alive.

Feeling an invigorating rush, he put his entire body into a final attack, a quick volley of blows with the sword that de Sable easily blocked. However, he completely missed at the last second the hidden blade punctuating his chest. His mind wanted to continue fighting but his body gave out and he collapsed to the ground. Altaïr leaned closer to listen to his final words.

"You're a foolish boy, you know that?" the man gasped, blood burbling from his mouth.

Altaïr grimaced. "So I've been told. But what were you ultimately trying to accomplish?"

"Peace…men are selfish, hurtful creatures. The Apple of Eden can subdue their beastly nature, at long last ending the fighting." He took another large breath, fixing an eye squarely on the Assassin. "But your Master is the most selfish of all. Where I sought unity, he only seeks the Apple for himself."

He'd been cradling the man in his arms to listen better but suddenly jerked upright, dropping him. Ignoring the whimpered "Ow!", Altaïr said, "You're lying. Al Mualim doesn't care for using the Apple. He just wanted to make sure it was out of Templar hands."

"He _is_ a Templar!" de Sable countered. "You've been doing his bidding this entire time, and your real target has been right in front of you . Foolish…foolish boy." He coughed, spitting up blood. "I die only with the regret…of never being able to tell my son…that he's adopted." With a distinctive _bleh_, he died.

Without looking back, Altaïr stepped over his body and continued back down the road. Presently, he was aware of a pair of feet rushing to keep up. He wondered if King Richard was going to go back on his promise but suddenly, a hand reached out to his shoulder.

A hand that was missing a finger.

He wheeled around and came face to face with Hassan. Initially he wanted to bear hug him (he'd never admit that out loud) but Hassan wasn't smiling.

"Did he say…my uncle is a Templar?"

Altaïr nodded. "So it would seem, though I'm not ready to believe it. Let us hurry back to Masyaf to find the truth."

~.~.~

"Aww, look, Altaïr! They've come to welcome us home!"

The older Assassin cast him a look as though to question his sanity, then turned back to the large mob of people before them, comprised of both villagers and Assassin's alike. "They're clearly not themselves. They've been…possessed. I fear that de Sable might've been speaking the truth."

"Yeah, well, this isn't proof so I'm not believing it," Hassan denied obstinately.

From atop a roof, Malik revealed himself and shouted, "Al Mualim has taken control of everyone's minds!"

"…That means nothing," Hassan said in response to Altaïr's pointed stare becoming stronger.

Leading the way, Altaïr shouted to Malik to prevent anyone from entering into the fortress, he himself continuing on to finally make _someone _a believer.

However, a cursory search of the castle revealed that the place was now deserted. Likely, all in the Assassin Order were now under Mualim's influence outside, which was a lucky break. Last thing he needed was a hoard of brainwashed skilled killers attacking him…not that they were any less dangerous when they weren't brainwashed. The searching finally led them outside into the small garden, though this too looked empty, until:

"You're too late, _boys_!" Mualim thundered above them from the balcony.

"You won't get away with your dastardly plan!" Altaïr shouted, making it Hassan's turn to stare.

"I have the Apple of Eden…and soon, it will show me the other Piece. Once I have both, nothing will stop me!" Mualim pulled a golden sphere from his pocket and held it up. A flash pierced the sky and Altaïr found that he was now immobilized, struggling in vain against an invisible vice.

"Uncle, no!" Hassan cried, still able to move. "Why are you doing this? Can't we all just get along?"

"Not…helping…" Altaïr grunted.

Mualim laughed, causing the Apple to nearly roll off his fingertips. Recovering at the last minute, he cleared his throat with a serious expression. "I'm not biologically related to you. I'm adopted."

_There's a lot of that going around…_ Altaïr noted.

"What luck on my part that my adoptive parents were Assassins! Thus, I too was given the opportunity to become an Assassin, which, perhaps the lack of discrimination of the Brotherhood is its biggest weak point. With infinite information at my disposal from the Order library, I found out that my real parents were Templars. And," he finished with a shrug, "I happen to like their agenda more than the Assassin's."

Hassan shook his head, begging with his eyes for all of this to be an elaborate joke. "That still doesn't explain why you'd allow me to become an Assassin. Why train one of your enemies?"

"I have a few reasons for that," Mualim conceded. "After you failed to grasp any other trade, I would've looked suspicious by not offering the one skill that was in your blood. Your mother and father might've retired early but they expected you to succeed them. Altaïr's fast rise in the ranks offered a chance for you to train with the most top-ranked Assassin, ensuring that you learned even quicker. And also ensuring the demise of the other Nine that much faster."

Taking a step back, Hassan shook his head violently. "You _used _me as a pawn in your sick games?"

The old man laughed. "Oh Hassan, welcome to life! Where brother betrays brother to get ahead. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must kill Altaïr. Once I'm done, if you ask nicely enough, I might spare you to make another mindless puppet."

He held up the Apple and it flashed once again, producing several shadowy figures that surrounded Altaïr in the courtyard below. An exact nine people. Altaïr already knew what this was about to be.

"A revival of your rivals," he scoffed, unconcerned as the men drew closer. "Aren't you one for originality."

"More like the irony," Mualim corrected, tucking the Apple in his pocket. "You killed them and now they seek revenge! That's also part of a novel I'm writing; figured I'd try the plot out on you to help capture the raw emotion." He flicked his finger and what had only been fluid ethereal figures solidified into...Altaïr wouldn't call them humans, but something that was much more substantial. "Go ahead, Altaïr, don't be too proud to admit your own defeat."

Altaïr let out a growl, pulling his arm tightly against the invisible bonds.

"That's right, let me hear it! I want you to grovel at my feet!" Mualim encouraged, leaning closer over the balcony.

But Hassan saw what his uncle—ex-uncle?—could not see; Altaïr was now able to move his fingers. This was it; this was what all his training had been for. It was now or never!

"Chaaaarge!" he yelled, running at break-neck speed towards Altaïr.

"No, Hassan, I'm fine—!"

Too late. Hassan crashed into him, sending both of them tumbling over the raised platform of the garden and onto the lower courtyard twenty feet below. Disentangling themselves, they were backed up against the wall as the shadows drew closer. "You should've taken out Mualim," Altaïr muttered, starting to withdraw his sword. "If we had've launched a surprise attack on him and the Apple, we could've avoided this."

But in the same moment that he was unsheathing the sword, Hassan had already fitted an arrow into the bow. "For once, I'm actually ahead of you." With a whispered goodbye, Hassan released the arrow which pierced through the chest of a still cackling Mualim. The man stumbled, using both hands to brace himself on the balcony. The Apple fell out his pocket and seemingly tumbled in slow motion towards the ground, shining like a falling star. It crashed to the earth, breaking open into two.

The nine figures were swiftly reabsorbed into the piece of Eden where the Apple fitted itself back together again with a metallic _click_. Just above, their leader clung desperately to his final moments, staring them down with a loathing that Altaïr would find hard to rival in later years.

"Curse you," Mualim groaned, sliding down against the railing. "Man cannot be trusted with free will and to govern himself or he is doomed to follow the same path for all eternity. True freedom is slavery! With one mind, there can no longer be hunger, war, hate. These things are a base trait of humans that can only be quelled by universal control. But no matter…you may have killed me but may the Templars live on forever!"

With a dramatic _bleh_, his head fell to the ground, dead.

Altaïr closed his eyes for a moment for their leader before hearing a sniffle come from Hassan. Awkwardly, he patted the boy on the back, muttering a quiet "There, there…"

"He *sniff* he was the best non-uncle ever! He still had some faith in me even when everyone else didn't. And…even if we're ultimately on different sides, I think that somewhere deep, deep, _deep_ down inside…I made him proud when I became an Assassin."

Altaïr could mildly relate, having been raised as an orphan with Mualim's approval being his biggest goal. However, that approval hadn't been towards their accomplishments themselves but what it meant in terms of the Templars getting that much closer to using this…piece of Eden. He decided though to keep those thoughts to himself as it wouldn't help any to remind Hassan of that. Instead he said, "You'll always have a family in the Brotherhood."

But Hassan shook his arm off, taking a few steps away. "Actually…I don't think I want to be an Assassin anymore."

Altaïr snorted. "You don't just _decide _to not be an Assassin anymore. It's what you are, what you're born as. You're either in or you're out, no halfway about it."

Hassan shrugged. "Okay, then I'm out."

His mentor blinked, then bluntly pointed out, "You chopped off a finger! You can't undo losing a finger…that's gone forever!"

"I still have nine other ones. And with them…I'm going to become a tailor! My mother is a seamstress so I can become her apprentice. Then I can take over the family business!"

With an ironic smile, Altaïr shook his head. "Then how come you didn't do that before?"

Sagely, Hassan responded "Because I had to find out what I was capable of. I had to know if I even could become an Assassin. But…I don't want to live my life murdering people—"

Altaïr winced.

"—If there's something else out there that I can do," Hassan added. "Besides, I've always wanted to create my own clothing line. Just you wait and see, they'll be wearing my clothes all across the nation!"

Nodding in resignation, Altaïr held out his hand. Hassan shook it, smiling just as brightly as the very first day. "Good luck to you, brother."

They parted ways that day though were never to meet again.

~.~.~

When he opened his eyes, Desmond was in the secret cavern under the Auditore Villa. Sitting up, he pulled himself out of the Animus. "What the hell did I just see?" he asked to no one in particular.

"For once, I'm just as clueless as you," Shaun muttered as he began to tap across the keyboard in front of him. "I don't remember a Hassan Mualim mentioned in any of Altaïr's notes. Nobody else wrote about him either. What's so important about him that Altaïr would want to hold onto those memories?"

"Maybe it's just as simple as he saw him like family," Rebecca added, seemingly much less concerned about it. She dug into a bag of chips on her lap, crunching loudly. "It was a strong emotion and that's why Desmond was able to see it."

"How trivial," Shaun said, his voice taking on the telltale signs of a rant. "We could've been given more insight into the actual key members of the Order, of the Templars, of what happens to the Apple, but no, we had to take a detour down Happysville to hear Altaïr's _touching _story. Time completely wasted."

With no forgiveness, Desmond asked "Are you always such a bitch?"

Rebecca cheered, Doritos flying all over. "I've always wanted to say that!"

An indignant huff came from Shaun's side of the room and he retreated into moody silence behind his computer screen.

"I think it was very sweet and endearing for Altaïr to keep that so strongly in his memories," Lucy told them. "Take a breather though, Desmond. You deserve it." The man nodded to her, stretching as he walked out of the room to get some fresh air.

Meanwhile, Lucy proceeded to further her search for anything she could find on Hassan. So there'd been another person that indeed could use the Eagle Vision…Altaïr was the only _recorded _person that had the skill. Perhaps she could trace his lineage, find an ancestor of his that was still living…bring them in…

Appearing back around the corner, Desmond casually asked, "Lucy, wanna take a walk?"

Wiping the screen blank and locking the computer, she forced herself to put on an innocent simile. "Sure thing, Desmond." Soon…very soon, she'd be able to end the charade.

* * *

Nothing too different from the games for my first AC story; however, critique is always much appreciated!


End file.
